Moving Photographs
by Gosangoku
Summary: The bitter memories linger even in the sweet times.


_I have seen your heart, and it is mine._

He loathed how jealous he was. He felt like a failure not only as a person, but as a friend and a lover. He still contemplated over his actions during the TriWizard Tournament, wondering how he could have thought his closest friend would have voluntarily participated, wondering how he could have thought Harry was doing it for the fame and glory. He mused over when they had been searching for horcruxes; how he had accused his friends of turning on him, thought they were together. He had just been so horribly envious and lonely when Harry and Hermione had been getting along so well. And, bloody hell, he remembered Hermione's betrayed, terrified face when he had left them... He vowed never to upset her so much again, not after seeing the _please don't leave us, don't leave me_ lingering in her shining, pleading brown eyes. How could he have left?

He knew the words that she and Harry had spoken when conjured up by the Dark Lord had been false, spoken only from thoughts in his head to make him become a traitor. Whilst Hermione expressed how proud she was of him to overcome that illusion, he still despised himself for ever thinking of hurting his friends. And he hated himself for how he still tensed up whenever anybody got too close to Hermione, often pulling her into a tight embrace when someone so much as brushed her shoulder. He hated it even more when she sent him those withering smiles, like she knew and she disliked it but she forgave him for it. He didn't want her forgiveness - he didn't deserve it.

And, as he watched as his two closest friends sat together in a comfortable but poignant silence, littered with scars and weighed down with unbearable memories, he closed his eyes. He couldn't stand how they were always in pain... He couldn't stand how nobody could fix them. They were all broken toy soldiers, abandoned in an attic. They were all alone...

_Mudblood._

The uneven word of revulsion was carved into her skin, stark white against her skin. She always wore long sleeves to disguise the disgusting word engraved in her arm, absently rubbing it on occasion. Whenever her husband noticed, something in him seemed to waver, and she knew he was blaming himself. She always responded by sending him reassurring smiles, but he always seemed slightly broken, as if part of him had been claimed and dirtied by a dark wizard. He often grapsed her hand, intertwining their fingers, and clutching her, as if she would fade away. And when they made love, he kissed her scarred arm just as much as he kissed her chapped lips.

She flinched whenever her arms were touched, almost imperceptibly, but Harry and Ron always noticed. She tried to hide it, convince them she was no longer effected by it, but they knew she was lying. Harry just brushed a hand over the scar on his forehead, smiling weakly, and she had lowered her eyes, understanding. Nothing they had been through could ever be forgotten. Everything they had faced - every laugh, every conversation, every argument, game, journey, memory - was fixed permenantly in their minds. They all still had the nightmares, she knew, from how she gasped awake in the middle of the night, waking Ron after he cried out in his sleep, and the dark bags beneath Harry's eyes every time they saw him.

Her eyes flickered shut, and she clutched her wand between her shakey, boney, slender fingers. _Why had it been us?_ she wondered, almost wishing she could pick up the wand and cast obliviate on herself to let go of the horrible memories, or utilise her time turner to go back before it all so that maybe... maybe it could have been different. Maybe they wouldn't have lost so many people, and maybe they wouldn't wake up every day, absently hoping that they might not wake up next time...

_I must not tell lies._

The words are carved deep into his flesh, like permenant ink on burnt pages of parchment. The lexis was engraved and scarred to remain forever with him, just like the mark on his forehead that brought back agonising memories. With words came the flashbacks: escaping from that dank little cupboard into the wide world that welcomed him with open arms, only to shun him when fear set in. He was their involuntary saviour, a martyr, but not a hero. He was a clueless child, never knowing what was going to happen but just aware that something would. And those bloody ghosts of yesterday constantly tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, _You're all alone._

Life was... normal. The Dark Lord had been defeated and it took so long, yet it seemed time flew by all too fast. He recalled the black slits of eyes boring into his own, the pain pulsating through his veins, the burning sensation in his scar, screaming, voices. The end of his part of the play. Or the game, as it were, since he had been played as a pawn most of his life. He realised that sacrifices had to be made for the greater good, but sometimes he wished he hadn't been the Chosen One. Sometimes, he longed for normalcy; that he had remained in that claustrophobia inducing cupboard all his life, passive and apathetic and bullied in school. Suddenly, his years with his cruel relatives seemed so much more worthy and safe in comparison to the wide expanse of his school and the freedom he felt when flying...

He still flew. He still slipped out of the house, grabbed his broom, and set off into the sky, regardless of the conditions of the weather. His wife was always slightly irritated by his impromptu departures, but she had grown accustomed to hearing the back door click shut and the eccentric, broken man take flight and disappear into the grey clouds overhead. _She_ flew a lot too, yes, especially with her Quidditch career. But he... he didn't play much anymore. They visited their friends and family on occasion, and her brother always invited him to partake in a game, but Harry always waved him off politely and went to converse with Hermione, enquiring after their children and exchanging nostalgic declarations and photographs.

Harry was existing, but he wasn't... living. Nothing seemed real to him anymore. His laughter came easily, but it was forced and feigned. His once emerald eyes had dulled, and he was never excited or emotional anymore. He and Ginny hardly argued, and when they did it was primarily one-sided on her part. He could never remember what words they exchanged because everything just faded together, the lines blurring and colours fading. Everything was saturated, like a sepia toned film, flickering in and out, with the volume low.

Everyone was accustomed to his quirky characteristics and sudden lapses into silence and too loud thoughts. Nobody questioned if he was okay, and he was glad. If, for once, somebody did, then... he wouldn't lie. He'd sigh, drop the fake smile, and whisper: "No, I'm not okay. I will never be okay. I almost wish my life had ended along with theirs, all those years ago."

Nobody asked. Everybody smiled. Nobody meant it.

**O-o-O-o-O**

Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling.

Whilst Harry Potter had a fairly happy ending, I found it bittersweet at best. Yes, the trio lived and moved on, but they had lost so many people close to them and experienced so much. They were forced to grow up so quickly and had to protect, kill, and watch others die. It's just my perspective... I'm not sure they'd ever heal properly.

Sorry it's rather short... It's just more of a drabble than anything. I felt like writing, and this is what wove its way out of my head and fingertips. Nonetheless, I do hope you like it at least somewhat, even if it's a bit strange.


End file.
